It starts when Arafinwë is too young really. Too young to understand certainly, though in some ways, it doesn't start until years later.
Arafinwë has hidden away at a lake in the woods, and it is Fëanáro, called upon by their shared father, that finds him. Arafinwë lets his fingers dangle in the water, he had been splashing at it, but the novelty in that had worn off as Laurelin waned.
He is more surprised that Finwë cares enough to ask his oldest for help- Fëanáro doesn't like him, though some days, Arafinwë wonders if his father does either. He is the least favourite if nothing else, the least Noldoran of his sons, son of the second wife, who, dear as his mother was to his father, would never be Míriel. He is the most soft-spoken of his brothers, not out of being more demure, but out of understanding that one of them must act as the mild-mannered one, the one who cares without bloodshed, the one who tries to bridge the gap between everyone else. Someone needs to fill the role, and neither of the other two will.
Fëanáro comes to sit down beside him, and Arafinwë rolls his head to look at his older half brother. "Fëanáro," he greets, and Fëanáro looks down at him with raised eyebrows.
"I was starting to wonder if you hadn't perished." He says, and Arafinwë laughs gently. He's not certain how funny it's meant to be, but it certainly feels like the dry humour they share, not that Arafinwë has known that before this. "Atar is worried," Fëanáro adds, and stretches out on the grass.
Arafinwë looks back out over the water, splashing his fingers again, a small, perfect ring echoing it. "I'm surprised he even noticed." He says. He is old enough now to be trusted with some mild degree of autonomy, though still years from his majority. Nolofinwe had passed his more than a decade hence. Now he is enough to not be treated as a helpless child, but not yet old enough to be much more than that.
"He loves you,"
"Not as much as you or Nolo," Arafinwë responds, without a second of pause. This is arguably the kindest Arafinwë can think of seeing his brother, though that is likely aided by the fact that he isn't with Nolofinwë, who seems singularly capable of making both of them lose their composure.
"So you've decided to live in the woods?"
Arafinwë shrugs, and pulls his hand out of the water, pressing it against his robes to dry off his fingers. "Why did you even check here?"
"It's the same place I liked." He answers, and Arafinwë blinks, sitting up.
"It was?"
Fëanáro nods, and offers him a hand. "I've done my duty in helping Atar find you, now I must return to the forges." He says, and Arafinwë lets himself be pulled to his feet.
It is one of their old arguments, without any real anger behind it. "Gold looks better with red," Fëanáro says, and Arafinwë looks up from his book, examining the deep red of Fëanáro's tunic, in sharp contrast to his own white robes.
"You would have me adorned in your colours then, brother?" He says, and Fëanáro grins, an expression that raises goosebumps over Arafinwë's arms for reasons other than trepidation— reasons he refuses to consider.
"I would, though this will have to suffice," he says, and passes him a circlet made of thin pieces of gold wrapped in intricate hoops, holding onto rubies. It is, he can admit, a truly stunning piece of workmanship. Arafinwë ghosts his fingers over the gems inlaid. "This is…" it's not his colours, it is, in fact, Fëanáro's in all their splendour, but he is reluctant to deny the gift, loathe to part with the work of his brother.
"If I wear it will you accept my decision on colours?" he asks, looking up at Fëanáro. His brother nods, though Arafinwë would not call it a surrender, more like a temporary ceasefire.
He passes the circlet back, and Fëanáro steps behind him, placing it on his head gently, brushing a handful of loose strands of his hair behind his ear. He leans down to whisper in his ear "You look radiant," he says, and it shouldn't inspire the feelings that it does. He shouldn't be encouraging it either.
"And your smith work leaves nothing to be desired."
He wears the circlet at the next banquet, pairing it with the necklace of a similar style Fëanáro had gifted him on his begetting day after the incident at the lake. No one pays much note to it when he enters the banquet hall, but he catches the eye of the half-brother who had made it for him. He crosses the room, coming to stand half a step behind him, one hand resting on his waist, fingers splayed in a mockery of a lover's embrace. "I see you're wearing it," he says, and Arafinwë casts a look over his shoulder.
"They are the finest pieces I own," he says. He is prince, and he has no shortage of lovely gems by which to adorn himself, but Fëanáro, even still working under Mahtan, is shaping up to be one of the most formidable smiths in Tirion, potentially the best if he continues as he has been.
Fëanáro laughs, and Arafinwë can feel it vibrating through his back, and his waist where Fëanáro's hand is— spirit of fire indeed, with the way a flush attempts to assert itself. The first time Fëanáro had placed it on him, his hair had been down, now it is decorated with small jewel studded pins that match the circlet, amidst piles of intricate braids.
With his other hand, Fëanáro plucks one of them from his hair, rolling the small pin between his fingers. "It truly is the most flattering colour on you," he says, perhaps more to himself than Arafinwë.
"I rather think it's better on you." He says, holding out a hand for the pin. Instead, Fëanáro replaces the pin, with a degree of gentleness Arafinwë doesn't expect from the eldest son of Finwë. For a moment, he's certain he doesn't breathe, and then Fëanáro steps away, his palm separating from his waist. Arafinwë raises his hand to the top of the pin, and finds it secured arguably even more stably than it had been before.
"You should wear it more often." Fëanáro says, and vanishes into the crowd, leaving Arafinwë standing there, feeling more off balance than he had started the night. He can't tell if Fëanáro means red or the jewellery.
Part of him was… expecting something else that does not come. Something from a fantasy featuring a man he should not desire.
